


O

by araliya



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 13:09:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13881516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/araliya/pseuds/araliya
Summary: The first CC Riot of 2018.





	O

**Author's Note:**

> I actually started this a couple of days ago with the Oscars in mind, but was totally not prepared for the Riot that we received. I jumped up and down like a five year old. Literally. Lyrics from Damien Rice’s The Blower’s Daughter, from the album O, which the title is from.

They like to dress each other. It’s a tradition that came about when they were running short of time with each other- Darren flying off to some corner of the world while Chris flew off to the other. They’d talk over silk ties and button-downs, about their days and their nights and whether or not Darren should have shaved. **  
**

 

Now, it’s more unspoken. They’ll both pencil in their respective events into the little stand-up calendar next to the bread bin, and they’ll make sure that they’re there while the other gets dressed. It’s the sort of thing Darren never expected to find inherently intimate. Taking off Chris’ clothes is definitely one of his favorite past times, but he kind of can’t get enough of watching Chris get into them.

 

The way the material of his shirt stretches across his back and the circles of his biceps. The taper of his waist and the flare of his thighs. Darren would draw Chris if he were an artist, and he would capture him if he were a photographer. Somehow, he has to make do with weaving him into melodies and writing him into lyrics, and yet it’s never enough.

 

_(I can't take my eyes off you)_

 

“You’ll catch flies, Dare.”

 

Chris’ voice breaks through his reverie, perpetually amused the way it always is around Darren. He uses a crooked finger to nudge up Darren’s slightly open jaw, eyes warm and laughing. Darren would blush if he weren’t so unashamed that he’s been caught staring.

 

“Can’t help it,” he says, kissing him lightly and making sure his teeth drag a little across Chris’ bottom lip. “You’re far too good-looking for your own good.”

 

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Chris replies, mouth red with the mark Darren left behind.

 

“I’ve gotten everywhere that counts,” Darren says, and it would probably be taken another way if he doesn’t bring his palm to rest over Chris’ heart. If he concentrates really hard, he thinks he can feel it beating.

 

Chris rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling when he turns back to the mirror.

 

_(I can't take my eyes off you)_

 

Later, Darren takes the tie that’s wordlessly handed over to him. It’s a soft, silky black thing thing that glows a little in the dim lighting of their closet.

 

(One side is Darren’s and the other is Chris’ and more often than not, Darren ends up walking out with jeans a touch too long and Chris ends up walking out with shirts a touch too small. More often than not, it’s not quite an accident.)

 

Darren flips up Chris’ collar carefully, and winds the tie around, pulling him close with the ends of it until their foreheads bump together. 

 

“What’s up?” Chris asks quietly.

 

“I’m just revelling.”

 

“In what?”

 

“Being so close to you and  _actually_ getting to touch you.”

 

He knows that Chris understands. Soon, they’ll be at the same event, but smiling at the wrong cameras, with the wrong people on their arms. Darren supposes it will all be wrong until Chris is allowed to be right there in the seat next to him.

 

Chris allows him a moment before he whispers, “You have to go soon, Dare.”

 

It’s true, and Darren wishes it weren’t. His stylist had dropped off his outfit that morning, and Chris had helped him squeeze into something starched and pressed and so expensive it could probably feed a family for a year.

 

Darren knots the tie carefully before turning Chris around to slide the jacket onto his shoulders.

 

“There,” he says, meeting Chris’ shining eyes in the mirror. “All done.”

 

There’s a sudden, overwhelming feeling of _oh god, we’re actually moving forward_ , and Darren feels almost light-headed with the realization of it. Chris, ever the calm one, turns back around, presses his lips to the side of Darren’s temple, and slides open a drawer to grab a watch.

 

Darren clasps it around Chris’ wrist and lets his fingers linger, let’s the pads of his thumbs memorize the feel of Chris’ skin under his.

 

_(I can't take my eyes off you)_

 

The phantom memory of the warmth of Chris’s body stays with Darren like a talisman, flaring up when he sees Chris across the table, eyes bright and ecstatic. Chris catches him staring throughout the night, and Darren loses count of the amount of times he widens his eyes and jerks his head to the screen in an attempt to get Darren to focus.

 

It doesn’t work, of course, and Darren won’t ever apologize for it. 

 

They link hands at the end of the night, slipping into the house with their jackets on their arms, the slow light of morning appearing on the horizon.


End file.
